


Solitary, but not alone

by zinjadu



Series: Wed to Blight [6]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Gen, Nightmares, Wilderness Survival, maybe making friends too, on the road, travelling, trying to figure this Warden thing out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-05-16 13:29:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14812259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zinjadu/pseuds/zinjadu
Summary: Caitwyn wakes up in Flemeth's hut after nearly dying at the Tower of Ishal, and she journeys north with two people she barely knows and a dog.  Along the way, she tries to reconcile herself with what she's lost and what her life has become.  And maybe find that she isn't as alone as she thinks she is.In other words, how much did fleeing Ostagar suck?  A whole lot.





	Solitary, but not alone

**Author's Note:**

> TW: mentions of past sexual assault congruent with female Tabris origin.

Caitwyn jerked awake, heart hammering in her chest.  Her hands searched for her bow, but it wasn’t to hand.  Nothing was to hand.  She was naked.  In a bed she didn’t know.  A different kind of panic settling in, she sat up quickly, but a stretching pain in her back halted her progress.  Gingerly, her fingertips explored her back, finding a new scar, and she remembered—

 

_\--knife in the back, biting, searing in the spring-warm tower.  The signal fire still burns, sending its call to no one, a false hope.  She yells and draws her knife, killing the darkspawn, an animal’s reflex.  Alistair, holding her up, he’s too close, too close, but her lungs are on fire with her own blood and her body is cold, then blackness—_

Gritting her teeth, she wrenched her mind from the past and into the present.  She was in a small hut, and it would have been cozy, with the warm fire and the smell of stew on the boil, except for the persistent question of where the bloody hell she was.  Shoving the furs and blankets away from her, she tried to stand.  Blood rushed to her head and made her collapse back onto the bed.

 

“T’would not be wise to move, just yet,” a deep, measured voice told her.  Caitwyn turned her head and saw Morrigan, the witch from before, standing from beside the fire.  She wore the same clothes as before, and her yellow eyes glinted like a wolf’s, as if she were sizing Caitwyn up.  Frowning, Caitwyn tried to figure out why she hadn’t seen the other woman sitting there before.  What had been there before?  A cat, maybe?  She blinked trying to clear her vision, but everything was fuzzy at the edges.

 

“I have questions,” she croaked.  Her throat was parched, and her mouth felt like sandpaper.  Morrigan offered her a cup of water, and she drank without question.  In theory, accepting food or drink from an unknown mage in the middle of the Wilds would start a tale of dire consequences.  But Caitwyn had already lived through several of those.  All that was offered to her now was simple water, and she was grateful for it.

 

“Ask, and I will answer,” Morrigan replied.  So Caitwyn asked all the questions she could think of, buying herself time to get her feet underneath her.  When she did finally feel some strength return to her legs, she began to pull on her armor.  Armor that was remarkably intact.  She traced where the gash in her leathers should have been, but found not a gap, not a seam.  It was whole.  It was odd, but Caitwyn wasn’t about to refuse intact armor in her present state. 

 

Her mother’s boots were gone, though.  She had hidden them at Ostagar when she had been given her Warden armor.  Safe, she had thought, could go back at get them later.  But there was no going back, and all she had left of home now was the ring on her thumb.  Too big for her finger and having only known her betrothed for half a day, she wore it all the same.  He deserved to be remembered, if only by her.   _In Death, Sacrifice_ , went the Warden motto, and Neralos had done just that.  Maybe she had died in that tower, she couldn’t remember.   Or maybe she would simply sacrifice parts of herself over and over again until nothing was left.  First her mother, and next.  What she would lose next she was not sure, but it would come, she knew. 

 

Macabre thoughts circling her head, she tried to push them away.  Instead, she focused on getting into her armor.  Another barrier between her and the world.

 

She left the hut, Morrigan a step behind her, and she saw Alistair standing slump shouldered by a tree as the sun set over the swamp.   All his dejection and grief were etched onto his face, and seeing it made Caitwyn’s own rising terror float closer to the surface.  Viciously, she tamped it down, forcing it into a little box to be examined later.  Or never.  But then his head swung around at Flemeth’s words, and his eyes latched onto her.  Relief broke over his face, and it was as if didn’t even try to control showing how he felt.  But his earnest reaction elicited a brief, sympathetic cast to her eyes when she met his gaze.

 

Then Flemeth interjected, providing something between advice and instruction, all with an unhelpful dash of obfuscation.  Caitwyn knew the stories of Flemeth, in part.  They were mostly shem stories, and she had not paid much attention to them, but that did not quell the uneasiness she felt when talking to the woman.  It was like she was being put to the test, though what the test was and what the answers were, Caitwyn had no idea.  It was a test of the old woman’s own devising, and Caitwyn would never know if she passed or not. 

 

Whatever the old woman thought, it was enough to send her daughter with them.  A mage would be good to have, as well as someone who could teach Caitwyn more about surviving in the wilderness.  It was a long walk to Lothering, and they would be skirting the horde for most of the way.  To say nothing of the Treaties or Loghain’s treachery, they’d need all the help they could get just leaving the Wilds.

 

* * *

 

 

A thin furred hide was the only thing that stood between Caitwyn and the cold ground.  In spite of it being late spring, this far south and in the dampness of the swamp the chill seeped into her bones at night.  She curled up into a tight ball, her arms hugging about her middle.  Her armor was cold to the touch, but it was better to wear it than not.  There wasn’t even a fire to keep her warm.  Morrigan had said it would draw the attention of the darkspawn, and Alistair had reluctantly agreed to the point. 

 

They had set up camp and Alistair had taken first watch.  She tried to sleep, but she would swear she could hear them in the distance, the darkspawn.  Their guttural vocalizations, the rattle of their pitted armor.  They were surrounded, surrounded again, like in the tower.  No way out.  She could feel them, like worms on her skin, a slithering, rotting stench in her mind.  She tried to shut it out.  They were hidden safe in a hollow, a depression in the landscape, out of sight, their scent covered by a whisper of Morrigan’s magic.  But no matter what she told herself, she could _feel_ them.

 

At Ostagar it had all been too new, and she had been caught between the stark terror of the night and the unexpected thrill of a fight, of _besting_ the enemy not just running away.  Here, however, she felt exposed, vulnerable.  Her breathing sped up, short and sharp, and she knew there was no—

 

The dog flopped down beside her, his massive bulk suddenly there and she inhaled sharply in surprise.  He was huge, the dog she had helped to save.  Even though she had no fondness for dogs, she hadn’t cared to see something suffer.  Her pity had earned her the animal’s loyalty, and he had come barreling at them earlier today as they journeyed north.  He turned his massive head toward her, looking her in the eye with a too-intelligent gaze, as if he knew why she couldn’t sleep. 

 

Tentatively, she extended her hand, her fingers stroking his rough coat.  As if encouraged, he shuffled closer to her.  Warm, he was so warm.  Her need to sleep overcoming her wariness, she buried her face against his fur and curled up alongside him, the heat of his body sheltering her from the creeping chill.  It was an unthinking kindness, an animal’s empathy, but it reached past her walls to where the black-slick terror lurked. 

 

She sucked in a hard breath, the pressure building in her chest like a seawall straining against the storm.  Images flashed in her mind— _red eyes, black blood, a fire burning but no help, screaming, gurgling, blood running past her lips, lost, alone, no one to help, no one cares, she’s in an alley, dirt in her hair, glass cuts her hands_ —flashed and battered against her, making her bend and crack under the pressure.

 

No one could see her, the dog’s body shielded her from the gazes of her travelling companions, and she shuddered as the memories past rose up inside of her, breaking through the walls she had built— _necks don’t bend that way, Mama, blood between Shianni’s legs, rot and filth in her nose, and over it all an oil slick blackness, choking, bitter and bile—_

 

A silent scream fell from her mouth, everything she had put away in a box breaking free, and tears traced down her cheeks as she cried.  Alone in the night save for her dog, she cried.  She cried until sleep claimed her.

 

* * *

 

“So, you decide on a name for him yet?” Alistair asked, gesturing at her dog.  He was _her_ dog now, she supposed.  No denying it any longer, not since he kept providing warmth and night and letting her cry into his fur.  She didn’t think either of the humans had noticed, for which she was pathetically grateful.

 

The dog raised his blunt head, nose twitching as he sniffed out the food Alistair had in hand.  She stroked the animal’s fur fondly.  Alistair shortened his stride to keep pace with her and handed her some rations while he chewed on his own portion.  She broke off a bit of the preserved meat for the dog even though they had precious little to eat.  Caitwyn did her best to ignore the rumbling in her stomach, and she wished they had stayed at Flemeth’s hut long enough to eat.  Sure, it might have been some witches brew, but it would have at least filled her stomach properly.

 

Though this was not the first time she had been hungry.  She could survive for a little while longer.

 

“Animals do not require names.  T’is a human invention,” Morrigan said over her shoulder.  Caitwyn saw Alistair open his mouth to reply, and it had only taken the first hour of the first day of travelling together for Caitwyn to learn that this was only a prelude to bickering.

 

“Been thinking about that, actually,” Cait interjected, forestalling either party from getting another word in edgewise.  She spoke quickly, her natural lilting patter of the Alienage coming to the fore.  “Alarith, he’s a shop keep back h—in Denerim, and he was rescued from some bandits by a band of Dalish.  They didn’t talk to him much, at all really, but he acquired a few books about them later on.  I remember one of them had a bit of the language in it.  They don’t let outsiders know much of it, and I don’t know how Alarith found the book, but if it’s correct, then I think I know what the dog’s name should be.”

 

Alistair’s mouth hung open as if he had just been hit by a mage’s lightning, and even Morrigan’s black eyebrows were raised in Caitwyn’s direction.  Cait glanced back and forth between the humans, allowing a dubious expression to steal over her face.

 

“What?  Why are the both of you looking at me like that?” she asked, though it was half a demand.

 

“That has to be the _most_ I’ve ever heard you say in a single go,” Alistair told her.  Caitwyn huffed and shook her head.  She looked to Morrigan for her to disagree with the claim, but the witch merely spread her hands as if to say she could not naysay the point. 

 

“Aside from questions, you speak but little, though I have not found fault with silence.  Unlike _some_.”  Morrigan’s voice had barbs in it, but Caitwyn was distracted by their assessment of her.  No, she didn’t feel much inclined to talk.  She had been quick with words at need in Denerim, but here in the Wilds silence seemed preferable.  Alistair had been mostly preoccupied with his own grief, every line of it plain on his face, and Morrigan kept herself aloof, like a noblewoman’s haughty cat. 

 

Then another thought struck her, and her lips quirked in a smirk.

 

“Did you two just _agree_ on something?” Caitwyn asked, her sharp canines lending an edge to her grin.  Morrigan huffed and shook her head, absolving herself of any further involvement in the conversation.  Alistair rolled his eyes at her reaction, but then shot Cait a slightly sheepish glance.

 

“Didn’t meant to offend, really,” he said, and she believed that.  There was no guile in him, his openness not a false one in the slightest, she had found.  He might be a human, but he was no _shem_ , no one cruel, or at least she didn’t think so. 

 

“It’s alright.  I suppose, I don’t know what there is to say,” she replied without even thinking about it.  The words had just come out, unbidden, but they were true.  She blinked, shocked at herself for responding without choosing her words first.  At least it had been rather innocuous. 

 

“Right, I, um, can understand that, I guess.”  His words were halting, which was strange, since he mostly just said whatever he was thinking as if he didn’t have any filter between his brain and mouth.  Not that she minded.  Not really.  At least she always knew what he was about to do.  Then he cleared his throat and inclined his head at her dog again.  “But you didn’t actually say what his name is.”

 

“Oh, I didn’t, did?  Well, he’s a warrior, isn’t he?  Fights alongside us, so, that’s his name,” she said.  A real smile broke over her face then as she patted her dog roughly on the head.  His tongue lolled out of his mouth as he soaked up her affection like a sponge. 

 

“Warrior?  Not bad, I suppose, but then what was the story about the Dalish for?”  Alistair’s face was the picture of confusion, and Caitwyn shook her head.

 

“His name is the _Dalish_ word for warrior: _maethor_.  Also, I kind of like the sound of it,” she explained.  “What do you say boy?  How you like your new name?  Maethor?”  The dog tilted his head, first to the left and then to the right as if giving the question serious thought, and then he barked happily.

 

“Ah, that’s a good name.  Think he likes it, too,” Alistair said, and Caitwyn’s grin persisted.

 

“Maethor, then.  A great warrior and slayer of darkspawn already, you are,” she told Maethor.  He barked again, and his stubby tail wagged with enough force to make his bottom move as well.

 

“T’would be well if your creature stopped making so much noise,” Morrigan said from where she walked a few paces ahead. 

 

“He’s got a name now, you know,” Alistair countered, and then they were off, bickering again.  Caitwyn let them have at it, not willing to get in the middle of it again.  She had Maethor, and he didn’t mind that she was quiet at all.

 

* * *

 

Maethor slunk through the undergrowth, and Caitwyn could just make out his shoulders as he followed their quarry’s scent.  She tested the tension on her bowstring and then slid an arrow out of her quiver and knocked it.  Following her dog on silent feet, she had just learned the trick of moving silent through the forest, and she kept her breathing steady and even.  The afternoon sunlight streamed lazily through the leafy canopy, casting dappled shadows all around her.  It was a little bit like the narrow alleys of Denerim, with the shifting light, and she focused her sight on where she thought their prey might surface.

 

Then a flutter of brush caught her eye, and Maethor surged forward with a growl.  The rabbit dashed into the game trail and Caitwyn drew a bead on the animal, trying to predict where it _would_ _be_ rather than focusing on where it was.  A slow breath out, she drew back her on her bow, and—

 

“Caitwyn!” Alistair cried out.  Startled, she almost let her arrow fly in surprise, but she recovered quickly.  Crowing low, she scanned her surroundings to see if any darkspawn or beasts had managed to sneak up on her.  She strained her hearing to its limits, but she only heard the chirps of small animals in the trees, and a bird or two picking up its song after they had been so rudely interrupted.  Then Maethor trotted to her side and sneezed dismissively.  There was nothing dangerous nearby.  They were fine.

 

“Caitwyn!” came the call again, and then she heard a quieter though deeply annoyed Morrigan hiss, “If you do not stop this yelling, surely the darkspawn will notice.”

 

“She could be hurt, and she doesn’t leave a trail, if you’ve noticed,” Alistair growled at the witch, and Caitwyn sighed.  Glancing down at Maethor she had the brief, fleeting fantasy that she could somehow disappear into the woods and not deal with… anything really.  But she knew she couldn’t do that.  For all that she desperately wanted to run and hide from this whole mess, she knew doing so would only place her family in more danger.  For them, at least, she had to keep going.  She had to survive.

 

Swiftly, she wove through the brush to find the humans glaring at each other but blessedly quiet.  As soon as Alistair caught sight of her, he let out an explosive breath and closed the distance between them.  Instinctively, she took a half step back, suddenly confronted with how _tall_ he was.  Pulled up short by her reaction, he held his hands palms out and stayed where he was.

 

“Sorry, sorry, but you said you were off scouting, and you were gone longer than normal.  I… I thought you might’ve been hurt,” he explained in a rush, his words tumbling over each other.  His eyes were a little wild around the edges and his breath was quick, nearly panicked.  He’d been _scared_.

 

“Well, I’m not.  Perfectly fine,” she said quickly. 

 

“You see?  Your concern was entirely superfluous.”  Morrigan’s superior tones made Alistair grit his teeth, but for once he ignored her.  Instead, he remained focused on Caitwyn.  She tamped down the compulsion to squirm, to get out from under his eyes.  Eyes that were kind and worried and far, far too honest.

 

How could anyone be that honest, she wondered?  Everyone wore masks, some more than others, but they wore masks all the same.  She should know; she relied on those masks so much that sometimes she felt like they were the realest parts of her.

 

“I’m sorry I worried you.  Didn’t mean to,” she said at last.  It was what he wanted to hear, she knew.  She was used to telling humans what they wanted to hear, but it wasn’t just that.  She _was_ sorry he had worried on her account.  She should have found a way to let him know she was alright.  It was the comradely thing to do, she thought.

 

* * *

 

 

“…and this is spindleweed,” Morrigan told her as she carefully cut a sample.  “T’is useful for many potions and ointments, though I have not the equipment to prepare such at present.”  Caitwyn fixed the image of the plant in her mind, taking careful note of its branching and coloration.  The wilderness was not the vast unknown that it had been when she had first left Denerim, but she still had a lot to learn.  She had found something like a teacher in Morrigan, though the witch had been reluctant at first.  Caitwyn had proven herself by paying careful attention and never making the same mistake twice.

 

She nodded, not wasting words, and Morrigan stowed the cutting away carefully in her pack.  Together, they moved through the forest, Caitwyn’s sharp eyes finding more herbs and roots that would be useful once Morrigan was able to brew things.  It was becoming abundantly clear to Caitwyn that their current equipment wasn’t enough to sustain them for very long.  She hoped they could find whatever they lacked in Lothering. 

 

Then another thought struck her.  Something else Morrigan might be able to teach her.

 

“Morrigan, what do you know about how Chasind navigate the Wilds?” she asked. 

 

* * *

 

 

Night had fallen, and this time Caitwyn had found them a tucked away camping spot.  Both her and Alistair had an attenuated sense of the darkspawn at the moment, which meant the creatures were likely further away, and they had decided to risk a fire.  She had also hunted up another rabbit for dinner, and none of them much cared to eat it raw.  Well, except Maethor from the way he practically pouted at the carcass.  Morrigan had showed Cait how to dress the animal, and Alistair monitored its progress on the makeshift spit over the fire.  The fat spat off the animal’s flesh, and Caitwyn’s stomach gurgled in anticipation.

 

“Not sure which of you is more excited, you or him,” Alistair teased, inclining his head at her and then Maethor.  The Mabari’s dark eyes were fixed on the rabbit and drool dripped from his mouth.  She sat on a fallen log, her hands held out to the fire, and Morrigan sat opposite her and Alistair.  It was almost cozy, this.  Like they were out for a lark instead of desperately racing to safety before the horde caught up with them. 

 

“I’d say it’s about equal,” she replied, and he huffed in amusement.  He preferred to joke, she knew.  It was easier to stick to that track than be entirely silent.  If she was silent, he worried, and that was more attention than she wanted. 

 

Letting her eyes track up, she saw the moon was waxing full overhead, and she idly tabulated the days since she had left Denerim.  She had left on Summerday, when the Vhenadahl’s leaves were there the pale green of spring.  It had been three weeks, give or take a day or two, and it wasn’t spring anymore.  Nearly a month since she had left, then.

 

It felt longer.

 

“Been thinking about yesterday,” she said into the silence.  Out the corner of her eye, she saw Alistair shift as if he was uncomfortable.

 

“Sorry, like I said.  I thought—”

 

“You weren’t wrong.”  That brought him up short, and she pressed ahead.  “I should make sure you know where I am when I’m scouting.  And like I said, I’ve been thinking about it.  Think I have a solution.  Wouldn’t have figured it out without Morrigan’s help though.”

 

“Ah, much becomes clear now,” Morrigan said, a smirk on her lips.  Though the witch’s tone was dry, Caitwyn thought she detected something almost like approval in the other woman’s eyes.  Alistair grunted darkly at the comment, but he merely turned to Caitwyn.

 

“Well, don’t keep me in suspense,” he urged, his attention fixed on her now.  She rolled her shoulders back and sat up, trying to sound like she knew more than she did.

 

“We’ll make trail makers, like the Chasind use, but ones only we know,” she said.  At his dubious frown, Caitwyn picked up a twig from the ground, and then withdrew a stone from one of her pockets.  It was a strange stone, one with a hole clean through it, and she’d seen it and picked it up as a curiosity.  Now it could be useful.  She arranged the twig and the rock to her satisfaction, and then glanced back at him.  “That means I’ve kept going north.  No darkspawn’ll notice that, I don’t think, and even if have to deal with _people_ , well, they might notice it, but they won’t know what it means.  That’ll just be us.”

 

“Huh, that could work.  And I suppose that if we need a new, what?  Phrase?  We’ll just make up another one?” he asked, catching onto the idea.  Excitement lit in his eyes.  “That’s brilliant, really.” 

 

“I wouldn’t know about _brilliant_ ,” she demurred.  Morrigan had answered her questions about the trail markers, but that wasn’t what had given her the idea.  She’d remembered her childhood in Denerim, running in a roving pack of children, always needing to know what inns were safe, what ones had bad patrons, what houses would overlook a bit of missing fruit, and what houses should be avoided at all costs.  Chalk markings made down low for a child’s eyes, markings that adults wouldn’t know the meaning of even if they did see them.  She’d merely asked Morrigan if the Chasind had ways of marking their paths in a similar way, and the other woman had answered.

 

“No!  It is.  This is great, really,” he insisted, and Caitwyn ducked her head, not up to the task of pushing back against his enthusiasm.  How could he be so happy about a little thing like that?  He was an odd one, that was for sure.  It was a _practical_ solution, yes.  Useful.  But not something to be so inordinately pleased about.  “You have a list of them already?  It’d be good to start—”

 

“The rabbit is burning,” Morrigan said sharply.  Alistair yelped in surprise, and he cursed as he attempted to rescue the carcass from the spit, burning his fingers in the process.  Morrigan sighed in disgust and promptly removed herself, likely to dig into her own supply of rations rather than brave whatever had been done to the rabbit.  Caitwyn, however, had to bite her lip to keep from letting a brief laugh escape her.  She managed, barely, but Alistair must have seen the amusement in her eyes.

 

“Glad you think my suffering is funny, because we can’t eat it anyway,” he groused.  Peeling back the outer layer of char, he revealed a largely raw rabbit.  Maethor, a clear opportunist, stood and snuffled in the direction of the failed attempt at dinner.

 

“Looks like he can eat it, though,” Caitwyn said, unable to keep the mirth entirely off her face.  Real amusement, for the first time in how long?  Not just gallows-dark humor and paltry jibes to cloak a terrified heart.  Three weeks, by the moon, she knew.

 

It wasn’t all bad.  Though she could do with something other than rations.  At least Lothering was close, and maybe they could have real food soon.

 

* * *

 

Lothering had reeked of terror and desperation, and Caitwyn had heaved a private little sigh of relief to be back on the road.  They’d turned north instead of west, for the Circle Tower instead of Redcliffe.  The dwarven merchant had said that there were rumors about the mages being in trouble, and though Alistair had urged her to go to this Arl Eamon first, he’d at last agreed that any kind of magic related problem couldn’t wait. 

 

So they’d left Lothering behind, the people left to fend for themselves.  She’d tried to help as best she could.  The whole place had reminded her of the Alienage, more than a little.  Too many people, not enough to go around, and an oppressive cloud hanging over everything.  Morrigan had questioned her actions and chafed at the delay, so Caitwyn had trotted out the logic that doing so would show people that they weren’t the vicious murderers Loghian claimed they were.  Actions spoke louder than words, and it would foster questions in people’s minds.  It was to their advantage to help, she’d said.

 

“I have been thinking about all you did for the villagers,” Leliana said softly as they scouted ahead along the road.  Though she had only met the woman that morning, at times Leliana reminded Caitwyn of the kinder Chantry Sisters in Denerim.  The ones who still cared, still tried.  There was almost something serene about her, even in the middle of everything, and she was full of interesting stories.  Other times, however, Leliana’s eyes were sharp, seeing _through_ not at.  Caitwyn knew eyes like that.  She’d been raised to have them, after all.

 

Caitwyn shrugged, focused on keeping quiet and training her eyes and ears on the world around her for any sign of danger.  She didn’t want to get drawn into any kind of conversation at the moment.  She had only just begun to feel relatively comfortable around Alistair and Morrigan when suddenly there were two more people to dance around.  It set her on edge, and she had reverted to remaining quiet more often than not. 

 

“You were kinder than practicality can account for,” Leliana continued, her accent rounding the edges of her words. 

 

“There’s suffering a plenty all around.  No call for me to go adding to it in the world,” Caitwyn told her, glancing back briefly.  “Especially not for them who have so little.” 

 

“Not many think like that, Caitwyn.”  Leliana’s tone was thoughtful, her words chosen with obvious care, but Caitwyn only shrugged once more.  It was true, what Leliana said.  She’d known all her life that there were those who would gleefully heap suffering upon suffering, misery upon misery, hurt on hurt.  Cruel, cold people with vicious hearts.  A murderer and a thief she might have been, but Maker help her she was a Warden now.  Her mother had taught her to always finish a task she had started. 

 

That thought broke through something inside her mind.  She had to survive, yes, but she had a choice before her.  She could focus on survival, or she could do more than merely survive.  She could find a way to make this _matter_.  To make everything that had happened a little less horrible, and to keep a part of her mother alive, if only in her own heart.

 

“No, no I suppose not,” Caitwyn said slowly.  Halting her progress, she breathed deep.  The highway followed Lake Calenhad, and instead of fetid swamp stench and rotting darkspawn, she could smell the clear, crystalline water, the late spring greenness of the grass and the trees, even a few flowers in bloom.  She’d have to ask Morrigan what they were, because she thought she’d like to know.

 

“Hm, you remind me of a story I heard once.  Would you like to hear it while we walk?” Leliana offered, and Caitwyn considered it.  It would make the purpose of scouting a little more difficult, but she didn’t think it would hurt.  Leliana moved more quietly than Caitwyn did, and she knew how to pay attention to her surroundings and when to be on guard.

 

“Sure, that sounds nice,” Caitwyn replied, trying to sound not too interested.   Leliana smiled, the pleased smile of a performer in her element, and Caitwyn listened to the woman’s tales until they halted to set up camp for the night.  It was one of the more pleasant afternoons she’d known in what seemed like far too long a time.

 

* * *

 

 

_Down, down in the dark, they dig, and dig, and they found it, the source of the song, the song that fills and drowns, past the ears and right into the mind, a resonate call.  She sees it, a massive creature, a dragon, rotted and corrupted, flesh writhing with sickness; she hides.  Can’t let it see me, can’t let it—it sees her, mad eyes boring into her as its head swivels on its long neck.  Her heart freezes, her vision narrows, and there is nothing in her world save for those eyes._

_It stares into her, weighing, measuring, evaluating, turning her inside out, all while the song drowns out everything that is her.  And she thinks, it speaks, and she can hear it.  Its voice is overwhelming, and it tells her—_

 

With a strangled cry Caitwyn sat up on her scrap of fur, sweat sticking to her clammy skin.  Her breath escaped her and her chest constricted, struggled, strained, there was no air—Maethor nudged his head under her arms and nuzzled close.  Her fingers dug into his fur, and it had to have hurt with how tightly she held him, but he didn’t whimper.  He only wiggled about to better lick her face, wiping her tears away. 

 

“Bad dreams, huh?” Alistair asked.  She tensed, horrified at the thought that he saw her like that, but she made herself look at him from over Maethor’s blocky head.  He sat by the fire fully armored though he was not on midnight watch.  She evaded his concern and asked only enough to learn what it was that had called out to her and tried to invade her mind.  The Archdeamon had seen her and tried to touch her with its corruption.

 

But she was already corrupted wasn’t she? 

 

It made her skin crawl, and she wanted to be anywhere but here.  When he suggested they move out, she didn’t argue the point, in spite of her gnawing hunger and muddled head.  She had to move, had to keep going.  The others roused quickly, and it seemed as though they had already been awake.  Had she done more than thrash about?  Had she cried out?  Maker, she didn’t want to know.

 

Moving.  They had to keep moving, but a low, nasty pulse flared behind her eyes.  She staggered as she tried to stand, but Maethor supported her without hesitation.  Gently, she stroked his thick neck.  At least he looked at her without pity.  Had it really only been that afternoon when she’d thought she could make a good Warden?  Now after her first of what would be many more nightmares, she could barely function.  Again, she pushed it all away, locking it up tight.

 

“Good boy,” she said in a soft whisper, and he grinned at her.  That happy, guileless grin softened the edges of her self-recriminations.  Then everyone was ready, and they set off.  Caitwyn took point, as usual, only for Morrigan to quickly catch her up.  Caitwyn doubted she was about to receive another lesson on local plant life.

 

“I believe this would be helpful to you,” Morrigan said, holding out a small screw of paper.  Caitwyn took it, twisting the paper open and letting a black, sticky ball of something fall into her palm.  She raised a curious eyebrow at the witch, who favored her with a bland expression.   “It is nothing more but a simple concoction of willow-bark and a few other ingredients to aid in portability.  T’will ease the ache in your head.” 

 

Caitwyn opened her mouth to insist that she was perfectly alright, but Morrigan’s yellow eyes glinted in the light of the moon and she decided against it.  Instead, she popped the tacky ball in her mouth and started to chew on it.  It was sweeter than she would have expected, something like molasses or reduced honey about it, and after several minutes the pulsing behind her eyes eased. 

 

“Thank you, Morrigan.  I appreciate it,” she said.  Morrigan waved a dismissive hand at her words.

 

“Of course, for you are far better able to see at night than that Chantry woman, and t’would be good for you to have use of your faculties if we are to avoid a grisly end,” the dark-haired woman said.  Though she aimed for airy and uninterested, Caitwyn thought she detected a sliver of concern in Morrigan’s voice.  That was new.  New, and not entirely unwelcome.

 

* * *

 

They trudged through the night, Caitwyn and Maethor leading by the light of the moon.  Come the dawn everyone but Sten were dragging their feet.  She called a halt just as red and orange tendrils broke up the hazy grey-blue morning sky.  Leliana wilted where she stood, and even Morrigan sank to the ground with a touch of relief.  Alistair managed to spread out his spare blankets and cram some more rations into his mouth before he drifted off, the remains of his food balanced on his face.  Maethor snuffled them up and then flopped down next to the man.

 

Caitwyn, however, felt like she was beyond sleep.  Her eyes were heavy and full of sand, but her mind jangled like tiny bells and her heart refused to beat calmly.  Every time she closed her eyes she saw _it_.  The rot and disease and horror waiting for her in the darkness.  She paced around the camp, her arms wrapped around her middle, trying to tire herself out more.  Maybe if she was really, really exhausted she could sleep.

 

Then she caught sight of the giant, of Sten.  He sat overlooking the waters of Lake Calenhad, still as a statue.

 

Sten was a puzzle.  An _admitted_ murderer who seemed to regret his actions, a giant who allowed himself to be caged, a person who thought that following _her_ would lead to his redemption.  A murderer hoping for redemption through another murderer.  It was insane enough to be laughable.  And yet, there was a quiet to him.  He carried the quiet with him, like it was a part of what he was.  He rarely talked, though she didn’t sense the same haughty distain Morrigan sometimes affected, nor the spiritual contemplation of Leliana. 

 

There was a peace to him, and it made her curious enough to finally approach him since freeing him from his cage.  Picking her way to him, she peered at his face.  His eyes were closed, his breathing was deep and even, and while his grey skin was strange to her, he didn’t seem pale after a night’s hard march.  There was no mark of tiredness on him, or any kind of doubt or fear.  He seemed to be stoicism personified. 

 

Then he cracked one eye open, and Caitwyn jumped back on instinct. 

 

“You would do well to be less obvious in your observations,” he told her in his dry tones. 

 

“Aren’t you tired?” she asked.  Her eyes narrowed as she tried to find some sign that he was worn down at all.  He looked like he could trek another fifteen miles and still fight a bear or something equally insane.

 

“Tiredness of body can be overcome by strength of will, though it is perhaps different for those who are not of the Beresaad.”  There was a small concession in his voice, though it was clear to her that _not_ being more like him was considered a weakness.  She wasn’t sure what to say to that, and for a long moment they regarded each other cautiously.  Then he grunted and gestured at the ground next to him. 

 

“You might have the ability to learn however,” he allowed.  Out of any other better option at the present, Caitwyn sat next to him.  She had never felt so small in her entire life as she sat beside him, but she didn’t sense any threat from him.  No hostility in his demeanor.  Moreover, he wasn’t a human, so nothing about him made her want to keep her distance by reflex.

 

Taking in his posture, she copied how he held his body: back straight, shoulders relaxed, her feet tucked up underneath her, and her hands held loosely on her thighs.  He nodded in grudging approval, and then turned his face back to the shimmering water of the lake.  Closing his eyes, he breathed out slowly, and then said exactly nothing.  It was clear that she was to follow by example.  She mimicked him, letting her eyes go out of focus as the sun struck the water, and the world looked soft and bright, so different from the dark, writhing terror that had sunk its claws into her that night.  Matching Sten’s breathing, she felt her mind drift as all her little background thoughts stilled, and between one breath and the next she let go of consciousness.

 

* * *

 

 

Her mouth was full of fur, and she heard a clatter of metal on metal.  Groggy, she rolled over and drew her small dagger only to see Leliana and Alistair setting up the cast iron pot they had picked up in Lothering. 

 

“Whoa there, don’t hurt me, I’m not going to do the cooking, promise,” he said quickly, giving her a crooked smile and throwing up his hands in mock surrender.  Leliana grinned, too, a sympathetic light in her eyes.

 

“I am sorry we startled you, but we thought it best to let you sleep,” she said, and that was when Caitwyn noticed the state of the sky.  The sun hung low in the sky, maybe a few hours off of sunset.  She’d slept nearly the entire day.  Caitwyn sheathed the dagger.

 

There were a number of things she could say, and the possible replies ran through her head.  She could rebuff the kindness, or perhaps stick to matter-of-fact thanks, or even try to figure out why she had been laid out on the sparse excuse for bedding instead of waking up by the lake where she had been.  _Someone_ had to have moved her.  She took slightly too long to reply, and Leliana broke the silence.

 

“I thought it would be good to have a proper meal, since we had the time.  Do not worry, as Alistair said, he will not be cooking.  I believe it was described to me as, hm, fit only for dogs?” Leliana teased, tossing an impish grin in Alistair’s direction.

 

“That was only the one time,” he grumbled as he finished setting up the pot.  A grin tugged at Caitwyn’s lips and before she could stop herself, she spoke.

 

“Maethor really did like it though.”  Her tone was dry, and the comment sent Leliana into a tittering laugh.  Alistair huffed and blushed, the tips of his ears going red, but he didn’t seem to take offense.  Instead, he grinned in spite of his embarrassment, like he’d intentionally made a joke at his own expense.  He really was a _strange_ human.

 

Levering herself up, she worked her arms back and forth to get her blood moving and try to overcome the lingering threads of sleep.  She’d _slept_.  Not the shivering, dog-cuddling sleep she’d had in the Wilds, or the nightmare laden fits, but real, deep sleep that left her feeling, if not completely refreshed, at least a little more like herself.  If only the lake were fit for bathing in, but Alistair had strenuously warned them all against that idea. 

 

“Well, it’ll be a bit of time before everything’s ready, so maybe I have a bit of time to hunt up something for us,” she offered.  Taking up her bow, she re-strung it, and checked her quiver.  She’d need to get more arrows, or start learning how to make her own. 

 

Taking in more of the camp, she saw Morrigan a distance apart at a fire of her own, and Sten going through some kind of series of stances with that massive two-handed sword they’d found for him.  Maethor sat watching him, as if the qunari were demonstrating something _for_ her dog.  Rather than try to puzzle that one out, Caitwyn whistled sharply and the dog came trotting over to her.  He butted his head against her hand and wiggled happily at her.

 

“What do you say to some more rabbit, boy?” she asked, and he barked in canine approval.  Then she regarded Alistair and Leliana once more, and pointed her bow in the direction she intended to go, to the north and east of camp.  “I’ll be in that direction, if something happens.  And I’ll leave markers if I end up going further.”

 

“You, um, don’t need any help do you?” Alistair asked, and then hastened to clarify, “Hunting, I mean.  That’s a solitary activity, I suppose.” 

 

“It’s good of you to offer, but really it’s that you make too much noise,” she told him.

 

“Ah, right.  That makes sense,” he agreed.  For a moment she wondered if he’d say anything else.  He looked like he wanted to, but then he remained quiet, awkwardly quiet.

 

“Well, be back soon,” she said by way of parting.  Maethor raced ahead of her into the undergrowth, and Caitwyn put everything else out of her mind.  She had dinner to hunt up.

 

* * *

 

Caitwyn laid flat on her back, hand on her stomach, trying to summon up the will to move.  She had things to do, surely.  Instead, all she could do was stare up at the starry sky and wonder why she was so damned hungry all the time.  She had thought the hunger she’s felt in the Wilds was due to short rations and long days of walking.  But it had been getting worse.  Her hunger had dominated most of her waking thoughts when she wasn’t talking to someone or fighting or hunting.  And even then, it took everything she had to maintain her composure and control in front of all these new people, day after day, mile after mile.

 

But since they had stopped for the day and taken the time to have a real fire, and Leliana had made a stew out of the birds Caitwyn and Maethor had taken that afternoon.  It wasn’t rabbit, but it was at least meat.  Regardless, that meant she had just eaten her first proper meal she’d had since before Ostagar.  Maker, had it been that long since she’d eaten something of substance?  Her thoughts drifted, and she grumbled, shifting about, trying to find a comfortable position, but there wasn’t any helping it.  She’d been a right pig, and now was paying the price.

 

“You should not have eaten so much,” Morrigan told her coolly, standing over her, yellow eyes displaying clear disappointment in Caitwyn’s lack of moderation.

 

“I am aware of that, Morrigan, thank you,” Caitwyn sighed, hand on her hard belly.  With a grimace, she levered herself up, though that made her stomach nearly empty itself.  Clenching her teeth together, she managed to keep everything down, old habits about not wasting food coming to the fore.  “I’ll be fine.”

 

“You will live, ‘tis true.  However, you might become sick during the night, and I would rather not be bothered for a case of over-eating,” Morrigan told her and turned around leaving for her own part of camp.  Caitwyn let out a careful breath, watching the witch leave.

 

“ _Are_ you going to be alright?” Leliana asked her, and Caitwyn shrugged, leaning back on her hands, rather than trying to remain fully upright. 

 

“I will be.  I’m just hungry all the time,” Caitwyn told the other woman.  “Not simple hunger either, but that bone hunger, the kind you get when you haven’t eaten for days, you know?”  She tamped down a frown, not sure where that moment of sharing had come from.  Now they knew she’d been through that, had known a hunger that ached, but no one seemed to pay it much mind.  Maybe, she hoped, they hadn’t noticed.

 

“Ah, yeah, sorry about that.  Not warning you, I mean.  That’s normal, as your body adjusts to being a Warden,” Alistair said from his spot across the fire.  At her incredulous look, he started.  “What?  Why are you looking at me like that?”

 

“You didn’t think to mention this, I don’t know, earlier?” Caitwyn asked, adding irritation over belated information to her list of complaints.

 

“It’ll pass,” he assured her.  “After my Joining, I found myself in the larder at midnight, having eaten a whole chicken by myself, gravy all over my face.  I couldn’t even remember getting up.  But now, I manage to not stuff myself sick… _mostly_.”

 

With a sigh that was also a burp, she grimaced in disgust at herself as she laid back down in defeat, gingerly patting her stomach.  It was hard and a bit distended, and she let out a pained groan as she lay there.

 

“I shall get you a cool cloth, and some water just in case,” Leliana said kindly, and rose to make her way to a nearby stream that fed into the lake.  Caitwyn watched her go, and then shifted her attention back to Alistair.

 

“Is there anything else I have to look forward to?” she asked, refusing to sit up again until she was sure she could manage it without throwing up.

 

“Right, let’s see, there’s the darkspawn sensing, oh and the nightmares, you’ve had one of those,” he listed, ticking the items off on his fingers.  “The eating a lot, of course, immunity to the Taint, and you’re a bit tougher now, won’t get sick as much.  Though, that doesn’t always happen.  Oh right, last one, which since we’re alone I can tell you about.  You only get thirty years.  Then you start to hear it, the Calling.  Typically, a Warden goes into the Deep Roads, to take as many Darkspawn with them as they can.”

 

Caitwyn blinked, starting back up at the sky, trying to focus on the bright stars above.

 

“Now I _really_ feel like throwing up,” she grumbled, and she heard Alistair get up and move around the fire.  He sat next to her, though he didn’t try to touch her in an attempt to be comforting, for which she was grateful.  Thirty years?  It somehow seemed like a long time and not enough time all at once.  Blinking rapidly, she tried to keep her face neutral, to not give away the scream that built behind her teeth.  Saved from the gallows for just another, protracted death sentence.  No wonder why everything about the Wardens was so secretive.  She was a dead woman walking, one way or another.

 

“I know, they don’t tell you that little gem until afterwards, but, you’re not alone, Caitwyn, alright?  I know I haven’t been that helpful since… since Ostagar.  I should have been.  But we’re both Wardens, alright,” he reminded her, and something about the way he spoke was so earnest that she felt like she could breathe just a little easier.  Wardens, they were both Wardens, she reminded herself, fighting the battle _together_.  That was what was important, not who they were or where they came from.  Not alone.  She could hold to that.  Not alone. 

 

“That helps,” she said hesitantly.  It was difficult, keeping up her masks, the barriers she kept between her and the world from dawn to dusk around her travelling companions.  She had already been slipping up, but those masks had kept her safe, the polite smile, the clever word, showing people what they wanted to see, telling them what they wanted to hear.  Though she supposed they hadn’t kept her safe from everything.  Caught between a persistent, habitual wariness of anyone not family and the burgeoning notion that perhaps she didn’t have to be so wary around _everyone_ , Caitwyn had begun to think that maybe, just maybe, she might be able to call some of these people _friend_.

 

“Thank you,” she said at last, allowing herself to give him a slight smile.

 

“That’s what I’m here for, to deliver bad news and witty one liners,” he replied with a grin much brighter and easier than her own.   Then she heard the rustle of Leliana’s boots on the grass, and Alistair started to move away.  “I’ll let Leliana look after you.  She’s probably better at that sort of thing, lay sister and all.  G’night, Caitwyn.”

 

“Goodnight, Alistair,” she said, and then like the changing of the guard, Leliana took up Alistair’s vacated place next to Cait.  The former lay sister placed a cool, damp cloth on her brow and looked down at her with a beatifically concerned expression.

 

“Now, perhaps I can tell you some more stories, to take your mind off things, yes?  What would you like to hear about?” Leliana asked, and Caitwyn thought for a moment.

 

“I’d like to hear more about the Dalish, if you don’t mind,” Caitwyn requested, and Leliana’s answering laugh was equal parts pleased and amused, though not at Caitwyn’s expense, she thought. 

 

“But of course!  Now let’s see, I believe we left off when…”


End file.
